A Ravishing Night With The Mysterious Earl (Steamy Historical Regency)

by Olivia Bennet

  Where can she be? He stalked to the window and looked out upon the landscape of London. His confidence was waning somewhat. That being said, there was one letter amongst the morning’s post that gave him some sense of purpose. The Duke of Cowden had called him back to Cowden Manor at his earliest convenience.

  He had thought about writing a response but saw no need. The trail had run cold in London, and so had his patience. Indeed, Lady Jemima seemed to be more cunning than he could ever have anticipated. If she had not spoken to a single one of her acquaintances, then that meant she was not being aided in her continued evasion. Instead, she was pursuing this path alone.

  Clever girl.

  The tantalizing idea of her disdain had not lost its potency, nor had he lost his desire to hunt her down like a wild animal. If she would not come of her own accord, having given up this childish display of independence, then so be it. She had clearly chosen a more unexpected route of escape, and he meant to follow her down it, until she was his.

  Packing hurriedly, he headed back down to reception and acquired a carriage to take him to Cambridgeshire. There, the real investigation would begin, if the Duke of Cowden had not already lost faith in Peter’s ability to find Lady Jemima.

  That old fool will be easily persuaded of my unwavering intentions.

  He felt somewhat irked that he had come all this way, only to find a dead-end street, but that would never be enough to deter him. All he had to do was go back to Cowden Manor and retrace the steps that Lady Jemima could have taken. Once he had done that, he would be on her scent once again, closing in with every sliver of evidence he uncovered.

  After all, there had to be some. Lady Jemima was clever, yes, but she was not that clever. She had to have made a mistake, somewhere along the way, and he would find it, even if he had to uproot every inch of Cowden Manor to do so.

  * * *

  The Duke of Cowden paced the floor of the library, fighting with his emotions. Anger and sadness battled for supremacy, for it had been over two weeks since his daughter had gone missing, and there had been no word of her. And his wife remained in her bed, in a state of stress, almost catatonic. He had been given frequent updates from Lord Beaurgant, but they had not been particularly promising, despite his assurances that he would find Jemima.

  And now, the fellow was sitting in his library, attempting to persuade Andrew that he was still the ideal candidate for the role of investigator. He could not believe he was even listening to him, for he was at his wit’s end. His wife had retired to her chambers, refusing to come out for the better part of a week, and he, himself, was struggling to decide how to proceed.

  Time and time again, he had contemplated going public with the news, but he could not bring himself to. If he did that, he would ruin Jemima’s reputation in one fell swoop. The gossipmongers would run riot, coming up with countless false reasons as to why she might have absconded, and he could not allow her honor to be dragged through the mud in such a vile manner.

  They would cast such aspersions on her…aspersions that she would never recover from. Affairs, elopements, unsuitable suitors, they would tarnish Jemima with every brush they could utilize, for the sake of sensationalism. His daughter would become nothing more than a cautionary tale to titillate the social elite, and he would not allow it. No matter how dearly he wished to have her home again.

  So, what choice do I have, but to let Lord Beaurgant find his errant bride?

  The Duke felt deeply disheartened by the realization, but it did appear to be his only option. Besides, the fellow seemed intensely willing to continue his search, where everyone else seemed to have given up entirely. The household staff had returned to their duties, their silence paid for with threats and, where necessary, monetary gain.

  “How is it possible that not one single individual saw her leave?” Andrew sighed, as he came to a halt beside the fireplace.

  “That is what I intend to discover, Your Grace. However, you must allow me free rein to interrogate your staff. There is someone here who knows something, and I will get to the bottom of it.” Lord Beaurgant folded his arms across his chest and stared at Andrew, in a most unnerving manner.

  Andrew sighed. “I have already asked the staff if they know anything of her and are all resolute in their claims that they saw nothing.”

  “That is because you have been too kind, Sir. I shall be more aggressive in my pursuit of the truth, and I will find something. I am sure of it.”

  Andrew frowned. “And you found nothing from your excursion to London?”

  “I did not. None of her acquaintances have heard a word from her. However, that leads me to believe that she must be hiding somewhere, supported only by the means she took with her. If you will allow me, I should like to make a search of her chambers?”

  Andrew almost choked on his own spittle. “You cannot be serious?”

  “If she has left any evidence behind, there will be some indication of it in her chambers,” Lord Beaurgant replied, most insistently. “I did not like to suggest it earlier, as I was certain I could find word of her in London. Now, we have no choice.”

  “But it is invasion of her privacy.” Andrew did not like the sound of Lord Beaurgant riffling through Jemima’s personal effects, even if he was to be her future husband. There were some things in life that were untouchable, in his mind. His daughter’s bedchamber was one of them.

  “Let me put it plainly, Sir.” Lord Beaurgant held his gaze. “Do you wish to have Lady Jemima returned to you, without any besmirching of her honor?”

  “Of course.” Andrew’s eyes hardened.

  “Then, you must let me do this, for her sake as well as ours.”

  Andrew sighed and leaned against the mantelpiece, feeling the heat from the fire against the backs of his legs. He found his mind drifting back to simpler times, when Jemima had not yet reached womanhood, and there had been no talk of weddings and suitors.

  He pictured her playing in the gardens, skipping merrily along the paths without a care in the world. Although he was furious at her actions, in abandoning the house without a thought for her family, he could not help but feel a nagging sense of guilt in the back of his head. Had they led her to this by arranging a marriage to Lord Beaurgant? Had their stubbornness forced her away from them?

  But it is a child’s duty to do as they are told.

  He wished he could have believed that they were not responsible. However, no matter how steadfast he attempted to be, he kept coming back to that gnawing guilt. Standing before Lord Beaurgant himself, he could somewhat understand Jemima’s reluctance. There was a peculiarity to the gentleman that Andrew could not put his finger on.

  I am being foolish. Jemima has done this through selfish motivation. If her honor is besmirched, then it shall be her own doing. Again, he tried to convince himself of his all-consuming anger, but it kept falling short. In truth, he cared about her honor, and he cared about her safety.

  He glanced at Lord Beaurgant, a plan emerging in his mind. He would allow Lord Beaurgant to continue his investigations, and if he succeeded, then he would allow him to wed Jemima. However, if he was not successful, Andrew swore he would find a way to reach his daughter, even if it meant putting a notice in the papers. And, in that notice, he would tell her that she did not have to wed Lord Beaurgant, if she would only come home.

  That way, he kept both his promises. The promise of the engagement that he had made to Lord Beaurgant. And the promise he had made to himself, to keep his daughter safe. Although, looking at the fellow opposite, he was not sure that the first promise coordinated with the second. Only time would tell.

  “Very well, then you may investigate my daughter’s chambers.” Andrew almost spat the words out, for he hated saying them. “But you must tell me, immediately, of anything you discover.”

  Lord Beaurgant grinned. “Certainly, Your Grace.”

  “You may begin at your leisure. Nobody has been in there since she escaped, so you will find her chambers u
ntouched.” That brought a lump to Andrew’s throat. It was like a moment, frozen in time, everything as it had been before she left.

  She is out there somewhere, alone. He did not even know if she was safe, or if she was struggling…or if she was even alive. As he battled with the worst-case scenarios, he only hoped that her chambers would not become her shrine.

  Chapter 16

  Simon watched the boy from his armchair. The hour was late, and Brockmire had retired to his chamber, where the ship’s physician would diagnose him when the sun came up. Or, rather, as soon as Dr. Simkins returned from his jaunt into the port town of Faro.

  Although infinitely more sensible than the other sailors, Simon knew Dr. Simkins had a weakness for exotic young ladies and rich liquor. Besides, he would likely be insensible until morning, wherever he was, and Simon did not feel able to abandon Mr. Barton, after what he had endured this night. Certainly not to retrieve an inebriated gentleman from a dingy taverna.

  “I am sorry for what has happened to you, Mr. Barton. Tell me, do you feel much improved?” Simon broke the silence, which had been strangely peaceful. There was an air about the young man that invited calm, though Simon did not know why. It was simply to be found in the wide, starry blink of the boy’s striking eyes and the soft demeanor about him.

  He nodded uncertainly. “I will feel better in time, although I am still somewhat shaken by the incident. He came out of nowhere.”

  “Has Harry been harassing you prior to tonight?”

  The boy dropped his gaze. “Yes…I confess, he has.”

  “Why did you not say anything?”

  “I feared it might jeopardize my position on board this vessel, My Lord. He is a more seasoned sailor than I, and I worried that no one would believe me. Had you not witnessed it with your own eyes, he would only have tried to convince you that I was the one at fault.”

  Simon smiled despite himself. “You speak in a very refined manner. I imagine the other sailors have told you so?”

  The boy nodded. “It is my father’s doing. I was around the children of a Duke for so long that it has become a habit I cannot dispense with. This is simply how I speak.”

  “How old are you, if you do not mind my asking?” Simon was curious to know more about this young man, who had been brought onto the ship by the Captain’s permission. He knew all of the sailors on the Evening Star, so it was a rarity to find one he knew almost nothing of.

  “Ten-and-nine, My Lord.”

  Simon felt a flicker of surprise. “Really? I would have thought you much younger.”

  “I am slight of frame, I suppose. It runs within my family,” he replied, a little too quickly. To Simon, it almost sounded rehearsed. Then again, he reasoned that the boy had been questioned a great deal by the other men. The answers were probably second nature to him, by now.

  “Did you tell Ben of your problems with Harry?”

  The boy shook his head. “As I said, I did not wish to jeopardize my position here. Ben may have taken action that would only have caused you more trouble.”

  Simon chuckled. “You may be right. Although, I do wish you had said something to someone, before it could become so extreme. Harry might have been stopped.”

  “He was stopped, My Lord. By you.” The boy paused. “Did Harry happen to say anything to you when you took him to the brig?”

  “No, he wanted me to allow him to explain, but I told him he could have no possible reason for doing what he tried to do. After that, he fell silent. I will ensure that nobody speaks with him until we reach Cape Verde, after which time, he will be in the hands of the British Navy.”

  A small smile turned up the corners of the boy’s lips. “Thank you, My Lord.”

  “For what?”

  “For saving me, and for being understanding. I know there are others who would not have been so generous.” He gazed into his half-empty glass of hot port—their second that evening.

  “It is my duty to care for those under my watch, especially those who are most in need. Your size and stature have likely made you vulnerable, especially to men such as Harry.”

  The boy laughed bitterly. “I imagine you are correct.”

  “How would you feel if I was to offer you a more suitable role—one that would take you away from the sailors below decks? I do not think any of them would do you any harm, now that Harry has been dealt with, but I must be allowed to assure you in whatever way I can.”

  He frowned. “What do you mean, My Lord?”

  “I have reason to believe that my manservant has taken ill. It may be a temporary malaise, but I can always utilize further assistance here. You could perform the duties that Brockmire does not always have time for. Setting the wood stoves, cleaning the glassware and such, fetching meals from the galley, and drawing me a bath should I require it. That sort of business.”

  He had been thinking about it throughout the last few hours they had spent in front of the stove, with Mr. Barton recovering from his unnerving assault. It seemed like the ideal solution, considering the boy’s trauma.

  “Will Ben not miss me, in the galley?” Mr. Barton replied quietly.

  Simon tapped his chin in thought. “Very well, then. What would you say to working with Ben during the daytime, and coming to work for me in the evenings? From five o’clock, should we say? You may take chambers here, in my quarters, so that you will be readily available for any tasks that I may have, in the same manner as Brockmire. That way, you will have nothing to fear below decks.”

  Mr. Barton looked up at Simon with those curious sapphire eyes, a wave of relief washing across his smooth, oddly feminine features. Indeed, the boy looked almost desperate with gratitude, as though they were the very words he had been longing to hear.

  “I should like that very much, My Lord,” he said, at last.

  Simon smiled. “Excellent, then why not go through to the room on the far-left and make yourself comfortable? You can bring your belongings up tomorrow. There should be spare nightshirts and such in the armoire. I have no need of them, as they are for guests, so you may help yourself.”

  “Thank you, My Lord.” The boy was positively beaming. “And I apologize if I wandered into the wrong bedchamber earlier. I did not realize it was yours.”

  Simon laughed. “Nonsense. I told you to use any of the chambers, and you happened to choose mine. Besides, you will have to grow accustomed to where everything is, if you are to provide me with assistance. I usually take my baths in my bedchamber, so now, at least, you know where to find it.”

  Mr. Barton’s cheeks flushed with pink. “Yes, My Lord. You are quite right.”

  “Go on, then. You ought to rest, before you are due back in the galley for breakfast. I will speak to Ben and let him know what has occurred.” He was glad that he could do something for the young man, after his horrendous ordeal. Even now, he could not stop wondering what might have taken place, if he had not been there to stop it. Likely, the boy was thinking the same thing.

  “Thank you again, My Lord. I do not know how can I express the depth of my gratitude.”

  Simon chuckled. “Work well, and that is all I may ask of anyone.”

  With an awkward bow, Mr. Barton rose from his chair and headed toward the door on the far-left of the Captain’s quarters. Ordinarily, these quarters would have been reserved for James, but he had taken a large cabin below decks instead, to accommodate Simon. He did not seem to mind. Or, if he did, he had never mentioned as much to Simon, and they had been sailing together for a long time now.

  Simon watched the boy go, before settling back into his armchair to finish his glass of port, which had now turned tepid. Still, it warmed him as he let it coat his mind in a soporific glaze.

  “What a strange evening,” he murmured aloud. “What a strange evening, indeed.”

  * * *

  Jemima walked into the sizeable room and glanced around at her new surroundings. It was a grand chamber, with a broad window to the far side, and a bureau beneath it.
There was an armoire, laden with clothes, and shelves with a multitude of books upon them. The bed was similar to that of Simon’s, with four posts and neatly arranged covers.

  Walking straight over to the bed, she sank down on the edge of it, her chest gripped in a vise of anxiety. She had been forced to put on a believable performance for Lord Burhill, but she could not deny the overwhelming stress that flooded her senses, now she was alone. Being his assistant manservant was almost too close for comfort. For, if he somehow remembered her face, she would be doomed.

  And yet, she felt a great relief that he had brought her up from the depths of the cabins and the galley that she had called home for the past week-and-a-half. Even with Harry in the brig, she could not shake the insidious fear that someone else might seek to harm her. Or that Harry might somehow find a way out, and desire to wreak his vengeance upon her.